


Survivor

by RacheIDuncan



Series: Survivor [1]
Category: Agent Carter (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-27
Updated: 2015-02-27
Packaged: 2018-03-15 13:06:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3448280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RacheIDuncan/pseuds/RacheIDuncan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peggy has a habit of falling in love with heroes.</p>
<p>Little bit of Angie backstory</p>
            </blockquote>





	Survivor

“Will your boyfriend be having dinner this evening, Ms Carter?”

Angie, she looks up from her plate. Having spent the last ten minutes of the table conversation supplying nothing more than the occasional ‘hmm’ or ‘yes’, Angie had spent the time pushing the pasta around in the sauce. Her mother had this power over her that just put her off her food, you see, that’s why she’s so thin she figures -- no curves like Peggy, that’s for sure. Now don’t get her wrong, Angie loves her mother. She’s the lady who taught her how to cook, how to clean, how to apply lipstick. But that doesn’t change the simple fact that Angie just don’t like her mother.

She has good reason to, of course -- it takes a lot for Angie not to like someone. She supposes she got that trait from her father, the staple nice guy of her little street in Queens. He owns the garage and taught Angie how to fix up cars while her brothers were away at war. Her mother, she guesses that’s why Angie ended up so independent and so fierce; without his boys, well, her father had to have a child to take over after him, didn’t he? See, her pa’s a realist, not an optimist like her mother. He didn’t think he was going to get his sons back.

Angie figures he’s an optimist now, two out of three came back.

Doesn’t mean he didn’t cry when Angie left for Manhattan and the calling lights of Broadway instead of helping him fix up motors.

Angie looks away from her mother, to survey her father. He’s eating his food all hearty like -- he always preferred her cooking. She’s never supposed to her mother that. With a slice of bread between his teeth, ripping it apart, he nods at Peggy, as if asking the same question.

Peggy, for her credit, at least has the respect not to snort at the very idea of Howard Stark being her boyfriend. Angie barely manages it either. (Even though she’s sure that they totally had a thing in the war, maybe sometimes still do? Angie wrinkles her nose thinking about it.)

“Um, no, no, I’m afraid Mr Stark won’t be joining us this evening; he has some business in Los Angeles,” Peggy replies smoothly, sliding her knife and fork down onto her plate to pick up her glass of water. “He’s only a friend, Mrs Martinelli, Howard and I---...” Angie swears that Peggy flashes her eyes over at her. “We knew each other during the war, briefly.” And then she takes the longest sip of water, settles the glass down. Peggy purses her lips in a small smile. “He owed me, a lot, so he offered up this place for Angie and I.”

This time Peggy definitely looks at her. With this little smile. Angie figures that she looks like one of those dogs that would run around her street -- the type that would sit down and wag their tails with these proud eyes after they dropped a twig by your feet. Cute mutt, Angie would say, before she would wind up wasting an afternoon throwing a stick a few feet away for the dog to chase after.

They all left eventually but those afternoons were always the best times in the summer.

She never had a lotta friends.

There’s a lapse in conversation for a while then. Nothing but the sound of cutlery hitting plates and the whirring of the gears in Angie’s head as she figures out how best to ask Peg if they can get a dog -- she means, now she doesn’t have to pay rent, she doesn’t have work at the automat so much, it wouldn’t kill to have a friend around between auditions while Peggy’s away at work.

Does Peggy seem like more of Retriever or an Alsatian kinda girl?

“Are you sure this is a good idea, Angie?”

She’s plucked from her thoughts by her mother, looking at her over the rim of a wine glass, with these eyes. And Angie knows exactly what those eyes mean.

It means that if her mother keeps talking, Peggy might kick her out before Angie ever gets the dog.

“I’m sorry,” Peggy says, her knife and fork settling down once again. She rests her chin on the heel of her hand and considers Angie’s mother. “But what do you mean by that?”

There’s not a lot Angie can think of right now, other than ‘Peggy can’t know’.

‘Peggy can’t know’.

‘Peggy can’t know’.

She watches as her mother settles more comfortably in her chair, takes a drink. Her father’s humming along and eating his pasta. He never was the most aware sorts.  
“It’s just--”

“Mother.”

And Angie’s tone is strong. It’s sharp. And it’s one that she’s never used in front of Peggy before -- explains the sudden turn of her head. Angie doesn't like that part of her, the part that's angry. Don't her wrong, she likes to be a strong woman, doesn't let people walk all over her. But that's how she ended up in so many fights. That's how she has no friends.

Angie used to throw a right hook so mean that Jimmy Sanchez still can't straighten his jaw proper.

Her mother has this expression about her face that she knows exactly what she's saying but she's acting like she doesn't. Angie didn't just pick her talent up, you know.

"What? I just worry about...you know, your disorder," She says and Angie can feel Peggy's eyes practically burn her down to the bones. Her mother licks her lips. "I want you to get better, sweetheart."

There it is. That's what does it.  
English be damned, it's just Angie and her mother now.

All she wanted was a nice dinner with her parents in her new place. When did something so trivial become so hard to ask?

"My disorder's got nothin' to do with where I'm living, Mother," She snaps, her fingers are tight around her fork. "You already tried that, that's why you sent me to Warsaw for all those years, isn't it?" Her mother's lips are a thin line. "It's all in my head, it's all because'a you. It's what you gave to me. You did that to me. I could’a died!"

Peggy can't know.

Her mother, she spits, "Don't be such a stupid little girl, Angie. It's all your own fault, I thought those months locked up made you realise that."

In that moment, three things happen.

Angie screams, "Locked up? I was tortured!”

Angie's father puts down his cutlery.  
Peggy stands up.

“Mrs Martinelli, I don't mean to be rude, but I believe you've outstayed your welcome," Peggy says in this quiet voice, the type that demands attention. Her spine is straight and her arms are folded over her chest - it's the posture that intimidated Angie the first time Peg stepped foot in the automat. (Of course, if Angie hadn't seen her wolf down a slice of apple pie in such an ungraceful way five minutes later, she probably would still be frightened.)

Angie's mother must have felt it too, that weakness under Peggy's authority. She stands up.

Leaves without so much of another word. Her father kisses her cheek and thanks her for the lovely food, says it's better than anything he's ever had before. He shakes Peggy's hand and Angie thinks there might be some silent conversation there. She's breathing too hard to figure it out.

When the door is firmly closed, with Peggy watching her, Angie pushes the plate in front of her away. Hangs her head.  
Angie doesn't know if she's happy or sad that Peggy just goes about moving the dishes into the kitchen.

There's clanging noises and the sound of the faucet rinsing.

Sad. She's definitely sad.

 

 

/ /

 

 

She feels Peggy before she sees her. It's a little while later now and Angie hasn't moved. She's spent the past hour or so in her thoughts, like she used to when she was a kid and none of the other girls in school would play with her. She's sure she could be biting down on her lip right now, like she did way back when. It's not like Angie's mother always leaves her feeling numb, anyway.

But what Angie does feel, however, is the sense of Peggy leaning against the doorframe, arms over her chest again. This time it's relaxed though, Angie's found that Peggy's presence always feels a lot lighter when she lets her guard down. It's not as strong and domineering. It's gentle. It's asking if she wants to hear about her day while holding back tears at the counter of the automat. It's saying someday. It's waking up after a nightmare that she thinks Angie didn't hear her screaming to and coming into her room just to see if she's still there. (Angie only knows this because she’s awake from her own nightmares.)

Peggy's secrets are on her sleeve begging to be unfurled, Angies secrets are on her forearm begging to be forgotten.  
Nails come down to scratch at her forearm. Cover up be damned, Peggy's already suspicious. Might as well try and claw it off again before she comes asking questions.

Angie feels Peggy straighten up, hears the low tempo click of her heels as she walks over.

She scratches harder.

"What are you doing?"

Peggy can’t know.

Peggy can’t know.

“Nothin’,” is all she says. It’s starting to bleed a little now; tiny, microscopic drips of blood dotting their way around her secrets.

She feels Peggy’s hands on her own, feels the way that she kneeled down next to her chair. She feels the pity and it makes her sick. Angie might as well be wearing that black triangle all over again.

At the thought, her breath hitches and it’s been months since Angie ever let herself think about it in the daylight. Her nails dig down harder and the tattoo is screaming through her skin. Angie stops. Twists her wrists to press her secrets into her skirt. Looks up at Peggy with a thin-lipped smile that she knows ain’t foolin’ anybody. But she’s gotta try, right?

“You were in Poland,” Peggy says so slowly with the nicest look on her face and Angie needs to leave, she needs to run away, needs to breathe. So she swallows hard. Peggy’s hands are too tight on her wrists. “Oh, Angie…How? I--...How did you end up there?”

Peggy can’t know.

Angie can’t keep pretending anymore.  
 __

 

 

She’s sixteen years old and her father is deep in the engine of a motor. Angie herself, she’s covered in oil, grinning with all her teeth, and passing him the tools occasionally. Her brothers are out at work. So he’s giving her a lesson while he’s at it.  
  
  
Voice muffled by metal, he says, “See you just gotta make sure everythin’ fits right, Ang, gotta make sure there’s nothing pushing against another. You know what happens when two strong systems push against each other?”  
  
  
Angie says no, she doesn’t.  
  
  
So her pa picks himself out of the hood, wipes his brow with the back of his hand and she chuckles a little at the deep black smudge he leaves there. He says, “Somethin’s gotta give or the whole thing just blows up. And we wouldn’t want that would we, Ang?”  
  
  
Angie says, no, sir, no.

 

 

“What’s your job, English?” Is what falls out of Angie’s mouth. She’s so tired, so so tired. She didn’t realise she could get so exhausted from just sitting and scratching and thinking. Maybe that’s why she’s so thin.

Nah, the numbers are why. No denying it anymore.

Peggy, she slackens her grip, brings one hand up to brush some curls from Angie’s face, “I work for a place that protects the world from all those...abnormal and dangerous things.” Rolls her bottom lip between her teeth. “But, heavens, Angie, we’ve already been through all this. You were in---...”

Angie thinks that maybe Peggy could be an angel. Christ, Peggy could be the reincarnated Jesus, she’s so wonderful, she’s so loving. Which is why, the way the words ‘abnormal and dangerous’ twist out of her mouth makes Angie fall apart.  
That’s what they called her.

Abnormal.

A danger to society.

All the smiles and the bright eyes are how she copes, how she deals with it all. Because deep down, every night, she still feels it. She still lives it. The starving. The working. The beatings. It was only a month really but she nearly died.  
Peggy kicking her out? That’d kill her.  
Bruises and broken bones, they heal. Hair grows back. You can eat again without making yourself sick. But that feeling of abandonment? Of being completely and utterly alone? That feeling that you’re less than human, it’s the worst kind of shame.

Her voice is far too broken to go back now, Peggy’s going to know, “What do you to them, Peg?” Tears blur red lipstick pity and worried eyes. Angie blinks and Peggy’s thumb catches it. She considers it for a moment, enough for Angie to press. “What do you do when you find the weird and dangerous?”

Peggy inhales sharply, looks Angie dead in the eyes, “We...we arrest them, imprison them, exterminate the threat. Anything to save the world from another war and keep you, keep everyone safe.”

Peggy strokes Angie's cheek while she speaks; so gentle, so soft.

Angie thinks of being eight years old and lying on a field, alone, dreaming of a future she could never really have. Broadway, happiness. Love.

She loves acting so much because it means she's being someone else. Someone without her history and her future. Those characters can be happy all the time, not just around other around. You see, the characters may only exist on stage, but Angie Martinelli only exists around other people. She's become a character herself, she supposes, the chatty Italian American waitress who serves good coffee and grins so much it's too sweet. It's not like she isn't that person, it's just being alone lets the demons come out to play.

There's fingers on her wrist, rolling it over. Angie watches Peggy's eyes fall down her face to the numbers there. Her serial number.

Her secret.

"Oh, Angie."

Peggy knows now.

Angie chokes, eyes squeezed shut, "What if---What if it was me you had t'a protect the world from?"

There's hands in her hair, around her shoulders, pulling her into a tight embrace. Peggy is warm and right and holding her. There's lips against her hairline and the hands squeeze her arms so much that Angie wonders if staying here forever will get rid of that abandoned feeling.

Peggy may not always be consistent and may not know exactly how to love another person, not really. But right now, she's all Angie could ever need.

 

 

/ /

 

 

"Hi."

Angie's in a robe with damp curls when Peggy says this. A way of greeting, a way of acceptance, Angie couldn't know. Peggy had walked her up to one of the many bathrooms, languidly unzipped her dress, took the clips from her hair. She hugged her twice, touched her cheek, before she left Angie to shower. Angie's sure she heard Peggy sit down the other side of the door to keep an eye on her.

It's like it's almost two years ago and her only clothes are striped and emblazoned with that damn triangle. Everyone treating her so gently. She was fragile and broken but that didn't mean they had to be so obvious about it - her eyes gave enough away as it was.

"Hi."

She sounds better, but she doesn't have the heart to put on that usual chipper tone. She's too tired. Angie doesn't even have the heart to refuse when Peggy flicks the other side of the duvet over and gestures for her to join.

She'd been reading a book, something by Christie, with glasses on her nose and Angie almost doesn't want to disturb her. Settled, sleepy, it's an image of Peggy that Angie's never gonna ever forget. So she settles down next to her, and waits.  
Hears the sound of the book being placed down on the side cabinet. Glasses on top. There's a click and they're dowsed in the dark.

Seconds later and Peggy's arms are around her and she's home again.

(Angie pretends that doesn't mean what it does.)

Peggy kisses her hair.

(She's failing.)

"Did you shower okay?" She's asking.  
Angie slides her arm around Peggy's waist, nuzzles into her neck, "I've said it before, English, never known water pressure like it."

"Good."

Peggy's breath tickles her.

Angie rolls her wrist over and sighs. Peggy must feel it, because she runs her fingers down and lets them graze across her number. There's a lot of reasons to keep it covered, Angie knows, but the biggest is that she doesn't want it to become her identity.

She only just started feeling human again.  
Peggy slides her fingers further down Angie's arm until she laces their fingers together. It's loving, it's intimate, it's everything Angie ever wanted from Peggy Carter.

But now? It's not as special or as momentous as Angie dreamed about. Seven year old Angie dreamed about holding hands with her soulmate and kissing her at their wedding. Twenty two year old Angie dreamed about holding hands with someone, anyone. Twenty five year old Angie dreamed about holding hands with Peggy and walking down Hollywood boulevard.

Twenty five and a half year old Angie is holding hands with Peggy Carter in bed but all she feels like is crying.

"Why?"

Exhausted, Angie pulls herself up. Looks at Peggy and sees everything she ever wanted. (There are better times to figure out you're in love with someone.) (Or maybe her heads just all over the place.)

"You'll hate me."

"Never," Peggy says. It could be a growl. Looks Angie dead in the eyes. "I've already lost too many people I love because of that war, I'm not prepared to lose another."

 

 

_“Somethin’s gotta give or the whole thing just blows up. And we wouldn’t want that would we, Ang?”_

 

 

"I'm queer, Peg."

And Angie waits, and waits but the shove doesn't come. The screaming, the slurs, they don't leave Peggy's lips because Peggy could never say them. Instead, what Peggy does is say 'I know' and cup her cheek before pulling her back into one long hug.

Peggy really is Captain America's girl.  
They stay like that, cuddling, Angie listening to Peggy's heartbeat while Peggy runs her fingers up and down her back, pressing kisses and nuzzling her hair. Neither of them sleep, Angie feels herself drift in and out but stays aware of Peggy's hands.

She's never felt so safe before.  
It's only a whisper, a small sliver of breath from between Peggy's lips, "You're my best friend."

But it means the world.

"I love you too, English."

And that's when Angie starts to talk. It's slow at first, ridden with pauses and silences while she buries her face into Peggy's neck. She explains how her mother found her collection of snuff pictures clearing out her room one day, so she sent her off to go live with family in Poland. Her grandmother always made her uncomfortable.

And then the war broke out and the Nazis were rounding all the "unsavouries" up. Angie was safe though, for the most of it. Until she met the wrong girl at the wrong time in December 1944 and suddenly she was in hell.

"You know in Church, Peg?" Angie mumbles, her fingers are toying with the golden crucifix around Peggy's neck. It was balancing softly against her sternum and Angie couldn't resist grazing her fingertips so lightly over it. "In Church when they talk about where all the sinners go? That's where I was. They're all the devil, those men, Peg, ain't nothin' good about any of 'em. The way they treated us...some fellas had been there for years and they were always kickin', tryin to overthrow 'em. Never worked. Guess God never really picked a side, did he?"

"I don't believe in God," Peggy muses, hands playing with Angie's hair. "I much rather like to believe in real human people and the goodness that they can do."  
Angie gestures at the crucifix.

"It was my grandmother's, she was a very important person to me," Peggy explains away. "She inspired me. But I'd replace it with a locket with your picture in any day."

"I inspire you?"

Peggy's smiling when Angie looks up. Tired eyes but excited too. She says, "Of course, Angie. You're a hero."

Every touch, every little smirk of Peggy's replaces a memory of that time in hell. Angie thinks that maybe she was right when she thought Peggy an angel. Maybe---

"And I seem to have a habit of falling in love with them."

Yeah, Angie thinks as Peggy lowers her head and presses her lips against hers, definitely an angel.

/ /

Later, Angie wakes up to soft, fluttering kisses against the back of her neck. Peggy's fingers are doing that gentle brushing up and down her sides and Angie's home.

A survivor.


End file.
